Brown Legs

She crossed River Athi, spit at the water and cursed. She watched her thick saliva dance on the water, a dart she only saw in her basic Chemistry lessons when Mr. Thuita dropped a pinch of sodium into a glass of water.

What the fuck was all that education for? After two years in secondary school, which can be summed up to one year for the trips on and off, home, she became a woman. Her chest was inviting, the way the pastor sends invitation cards to village members lost in Nairobi city for a choir instruments harambee.

She had legs, two long and strong legs, a characteristic of beauty in both village and city terms. She had overgrown her short black skirt, but she still insisted spotting it. This made it hang on her like nuts on a madman, revealing yellowness of the legs and red underwear when seated. Last Sunday the vicar bubbled some words when their eyes met, getting lost in the middle of the sermon before his eloquence rescued him.

Mueni was sixteen, ripe sixteen. Her aunty had insisted on taking her to a place called Mlolongo where money flows like beer froth, forming a patch on the table for the barmaid to wipe. Her aunt, Wanza, once told her that she won’t have to collect coins from the ground as there are creatures down in the food chain to do that.

Armed with several English sentences and a strong accent scented Swahili, Mueni let out a loud fart, showing her back to the village, and another one, to say goodbye to the good-for-nothing fellows who had written misery on her book, since day one . The next few strides were filled with energy, power and enthusiasm, the kind of enthusiasm seen on Television screens in the evening as the British accented news anchors fill sitting rooms with body curves and smiles in between tales of killings in Mpeketoni and female genital mutilation in Wajir.

The yellow paper bag housed her fortune. She had an extra pair of pants, black. Her English teacher, Mr. Kimeu had insisted on black colour as it showed very little dust patches. The memory of how she lost her white pair of pants was still clear in her mind. Mr. Kimeu had promised to be gentle in breaking her virginity but ended up forcing himself inside as if he was screwing a whore. The pain was seething, loud, tangible and satanic. The first chance she got to sit up, she stood, ran like a dik dik, cursing the dick, that thing is fucking awful.

The following day she tried to find the bush where the play had been acted to little success.  The teacher had carried her pants away just in case she thought of revealing it to the chief. Not that the chief would take any action, but he would get a chance to extort some coins from Mr. Kimeu in blackmail. The next day in school, Mueni and Mr.Kimeu exchanged guilty glances. He even spared her when he was sending the other students for fees and gave her a five hundred shillings note, to buy something called E-pill and a new pair of panties, specifically black. Apparently, the white pair he took home had the colour of soil and a terrible smell.

Inside the yellow paper there was a pair of scissors (for shaving her pubic hair), the purple dress donation from her best friend, her faded school uniform and three photographs.

In one of the photographs she was smiling to the camera while receiving an award for been the best girl in the national exams two years ago, in Makueni County. The second one had her sick mum clutching the Rosary in her hospital bed, death bed. The doctors said the cancer had spread to her lungs and she would be lucky to survive another week.

It is the third photo which stirred mystery. She had dug it out from her mum’s closet after the burial. It was a perfect black and white shot. Her mum, in heavy heels, was holding to the bosom of a well built man, giggling (or smiling). The man had big eyes, a perfect haircut and he was clad in perfect jeans and a fitting T-shirt. Mueni felt indifferent, an indifference which swung to brief sadness then curiosity. That, perhaps, was the reason why she still treasured the photo. She thought, at least, her mum had happy moments once upon a time.

Her journey to Mlolongo was awesome. The corners at Makongo road swayed her, making her lean on the middle aged man sitting beside her, with the man taking revenge every time the bus slanted on the opposite. She wasn’t sure but she saw something like a protrusion on his trousers. She had seen a man in the circumstances before, Mr. Kimeu. “What do men take us for?”, She thought, “quarries? Holes?”.

Thank God her aunty, Wanza, was waiting for her at the stage. Everything seemed different. She saw the Royal Tavern bar and restaurant which she had heard about in many songs by Wa Maria and other wannabes.

Mueni struggled to keep up with Wanza’s speed, on their way to the house. A bigot blocked her way every twenty meters and whistles came from all corners directed to her aunt, who was clad in tight leggings which stuck on her like a bandage. Her belly was bare, revealing the immaculate hole at the centre and her buttocks danced to some music, only that Mueni could not make out which music.

The first thing Mueni noticed in the house was the giant plasma screen TV showing something she came to know as soap opera. The room was spacious and there was a separate kitchen and a bedroom. She admired the good life her auntie lived.

It was some minutes past 7 pm. A friend of Wanza, a huge lady called Scholar, passed by on her way to work. Her lips looked like they had been dipped in blood. Her shoes were high, high heels and everything around smelt her perfume, even the washroom which she visited for a short thing.

She spoke brutally, breaking into laughter in every second sentence and swearing on her third. Today she was going to meet this man, Njoroge, at the connections bar. For the last three months Njoroge has refused to leave her phone inbox. He is married with children in high school but he always complains of nags from his wife, he is 45.

Today is the mother of all days, Scholar swore. She has been hatching a plan to make Njoroge leave his wife. The previous week she was in Mwingi to buy some charm. 

“See”, She said, lifting her dress to show a bronze ornament tied around her waist, with the strings dangling such that they kissed her pussy lips. Njoroge won’t play with her clitoris without touching the string. Mueni was bewildered, not just by the string, but also by the pantie Scholar was wearing. It was a thin thread which barely covered her genitalia, before embedding itself into the flesh, between her buttocks to meet the other line of the thread at the back.

At 35, her sun was disappearing. She needed to get a man of her own since clients have been few and far apart.

“These young sluts have flooded the market”, she whined

“Yes yes”, Came in Wanza.

“Or is it because I have grown a pot of Tusker”, Scholar thought, “Perhaps, and those flabby rounds of flesh on your belly”, Wanza chimed.

They took a round of some red Asconi whisky, cheered and wished each other luck. Scholar carried her goodies so carefully, so slowly, so bewitchingly. If only Njoroge knew!

In the closet there were some clothes already bought for Mueni.

“Try this”, Wanza handed her some tights, “Nataka ukae Nairobian”

“Sawa Auntie”, She said, dashing to the bathroom which doubled as the washroom.

After Wanza examined her and thought that it fitted her perfectly, she urged her to the bathroom to take a shower, the two of them, the same time.

Wanza was doing a detailed assessment of Mueni’s body, whether she was still a virgin. She gasped when she inserted her middle finger into Mueni’s  vagina.

“What happened”, She asked,

In sobs, Mueni explained the ordeal. Wanza was so disappointed that Mueni may not fetch the price she was looking forward to. But an idea struck her, “the hole is still very small, we can easily fake virginity”, she thought to herself.

After a bathing tutorial, and a whole lot of it, they prepared supper, together. Wanza was very sorry for the passing of Mueni’s mum and she promised to take care of her.

That night Wanza turned away two men who had come to stay over. She described, to Mueni’s shock, her business strategy.

“I don’t go to the streets”, she started “Maisha ni gumu huku, lazima mtu ajipange”

The truck drivers waiting for transit are her main clients. She gives them something better than just sex. You see, they also need a good bed rest without fear of being robbed or seeing another man on the line for a go.

“Take Mokaya, for example. He stayed here for two months when he was on leave. I could cook for him and do everything a woman can do to a man. By so doing, he will never think of taking in the young school drop outs who don’t know how to bathe” She said.

That only reminded Mueni that she was a drop out and she had just been taught how to bathe.

The following weeks were filled with cooking, watching Tv and walking around Mlolongo. Wanza co-workers always flocked the house in the afternoons, giving their tales of the previous nights, men who would cum before they were in and others who would never cum at all. One day, Anne, their special strategist, confided to them a new market.

“You see these pastors, they have money”, She whispered. “You only need to make sure they notice you, in no time they will be calling you for mid week prayers”. They all agreed to try the scheme.

By the end of the first month Mueni had gained some weight, lightened in colour and polished her Swahili. She was looking the part. She had developed a very good rapport with her auntie. The same time, Scholar was happily married to Njoroge, thanks to the juju.